


Getting Situated

by Hestia01



Category: Sleepy Hollow (TV)
Genre: Gen, cuteness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-13
Updated: 2013-10-13
Packaged: 2017-12-29 06:51:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,291
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1002273
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hestia01/pseuds/Hestia01
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Abbie decides to take matters into her own hands to bring her friend into the 21st century</p>
            </blockquote>





	Getting Situated

 

I. Rest, Weary Traveler

 

 

It's late, and Abbie Mills is settling in for the night. She left Crane in the archive room; something gnaws at her conscience...but she brushes it aside, certain that he could find his way back to his motel. She slips off her shoes and puts the kettle on, still vaguely uneasy, but not altogether sure why. _He's fine_ , she reminds herself, scoffing at how she's worrying about him. _I'm not worried!_ Still, as she adds hot water to her mug and dunks her teabag idly, she feels a stab of pity for her unconventional friend. She thinks of him all alone in a world so strange and unnavigable.. She wonders if he just pulled two chairs together and fell asleep in the archives where she last saw him.

 

Abbie sets her cup down without drinking, growing tired of this internal fight she's having. One half nagging at her, the other half assuring that Crane doesn't need nightly supervision. She remembers the desolate look on his face he'd tried to hide behind a mask of humor, when she left him in the psych ward that first night. Then the motel room she arranged for him that suddenly seemed little better in her eyes. Now, for all she knows, he's camped out in a veritable cave of forgotten files and documents.

 

“Fine, fine!” Abbie calls out to the empty room. “He won't be there, though. He'll have gone back to his motel room, and he's probably sleeping like the dead, like any normal person would be.” She grabs her coat, puts her shoes back on, and heads out into the night. The inner debate continues as she drives along, offering her no moment of peace. _I could be in Quantico right now, but no...thanks to some Revelations prophesy, I get to hang out with Ichabod Crane and fight the armies of darkness with him. That guy's more trouble than I need right now. Everything was going great, I had my life together; the next thing I know, Sheriff Corbin got his head cut off by the Headless Horseman and suddenly everything is in the Twilight Zone._ She growls, hating herself for caring about her strange partner who is sharing this strange road with her.

 

She opens the door, dim candlelight sputters near the back of the room. Looking around, she detects movement, hears a voice mumbling in a dream. She can't make out what he's saying. Soon, she's standing over him.

 

There, reclining in a chair with his boots propped up on a filing cabinet, with his long coat slung over him as a blanket, is Ichabod Crane. Abbie stares at him, disgusted at herself, not sure why she feels so guilty about letting him sleep here. Wondering how best to wake him, she jiggles his foot, pinching his toes as one of her foster parents had often done. He grunts and gives a weak kick in protest.

 

With a wicked grin, Abbie then knocks his feet off their perch, rousing him instantly.

 

“Katrina, I'm falling! Help! Miss Abbie!” He shouts, looking wildly around. When he sees his police officer friend, he drops his head down into his hands.

His look of utter disappointment unsettles Lieutenant Mills. Guilt prods her again, _he was dreaming of his dead wife, and I woke him up!_ With a grimace, she mentally kicks herself.

 

“I was so close, Miss Abbie,” he sighs, holding his finger and thumb less than an inch apart. “I never get to touch her, to hold her...I was so close this time, I could feel it.” Fully awake now, Crane shoots her an accusing look. “And before you ask, no, she hadn't any important warnings or clues for us this time. Only that she missed me.” His irrational anger over being torn out of a rare pleasant dream soon abates. “Wh...what are you doing here?”

 

“I felt bad for leaving you here. I'd hoped you would be like normal people and go back to your motel room, but then I remembered you're not like normal people.”

 

“Apparently not. Well spotted.” As clouds of sleep leave his head, he puts two and two together. “You were worried about me.”

 

“Concerned,” Abbie corrects, trying to remain firm. “You can't sleep down here. It's all drafty and damp. If you catch pneumonia on my watch then it's my butt on the line. You got it?”

 

 

 

Crane gives her a small smile, recognizing tones of friendship in her brusque speech. “Indeed, Lieutenant. I shall try my best to remain in good health...for your sake.”

 

“Get up, you're coming with me.” He obeys, putting his coat back on and falling in step beside her. Strange that it's then that Abbie realizes that her friend has nothing in this world but the clothes on his back. _That's not my fault!_ she reminds her guilty conscience. She remembers jokingly offering to pay him to stop questioning her about her ex-boyfriend, and he'd offered to take her up on it as he is in need of currency. He has absolutely nothing.

 

When they get into the car, Crane asks her, sounding only mildly curious. “Lieutenant...if I may ask, where are we going?”

 

She looks over at him, having just reached that conclusion herself. “My place. I have tomorrow off. We have things to do.” It's hard to keep a straight face, she's already grown fond of the way he pronounces her rank.

 

“Are you sure you wish to take a strange man into your home?” His tone is light and humorously mocking.

 

“I'll take that chance. Besides, you're not a stranger, you're just...strange, period.” She grants him a rare smile, taking in the sight of him. His expression of unshielded gratitude shines clearly for her to see. Despite being awoken from a vision of his Katrina, he looks glad to be in Abbie's company.

 

They reach her home and she shows him in. Crane looks around apprehensively; like a puppy brought to his new home, he feels the urge to investigate his new environment. Abbie can easily imagine her friend sniffing over everything in his curiosity, the picture in her head makes her bite back a laugh, covering her mouth before he can see. “Well?”

 

Crane peels his wondering eyes from the apartment to his friend. “Certainly an improvement from the asylum, and much more lived-in than the inn. Interesting accommodations,” he allows. “Is this typical of current homes?”

 

Abbie looks around at her home, trying to see it with 18th century eyes, how strange it all must look. She tries to find things that would be familiar to him... “Well, the more things change, the more they stay the same.” She saunters over to her small kitchen, offers him a box. “Bedtime tea?”

 

He returns to her side, taking a tentative sniff. “Chamomile...lavender. Reminds me of--” he breaks off, not allowing himself to be drawn into a painful reminder of his wife. It's hard to put aside, though. The scent brings him back to flowers in their garden, thoughts of happier times. “Yes, I'll have some.”

 

As the kettle comes back to a boil, Abbie pulls cushions off of the couch and tosses them aside. Crane watches her curiously, and is utterly amazed when she pulls out the hide-a-bed and makes it up for him. He points at it wordlessly. She doesn't explain, just smiles at his baffled expression.

 

“Extraordinary,” he murmurs. The tea kettle whistles and Abbie pours them both a cup of calming tea. She hands Ichabod his mug and he sits down on the bed. She sits down next to him as he eyes her uncomfortably. He suddenly wonders what her intentions are. “Miss Abbie? Might I ask why you brought me here?”

 

“It beats sleeping in the dusty old archives room, doesn't it? I get the feeling we're going to be down there enough as it is.”

 

“Yes, but you'd arranged quarters for me at the inn. Why bring me here?” He raises an eyebrow at her suspiciously. He gives his cup a distrustful look, as though he suspects she may have laced the tea with something.

 

Quick to break the tension, Abbie stands back up and takes his cup, drinking from it herself before handing it back to him. “I didn't poison it, and I'm not trying to slip you a roofie or something. Look...I don't know why, but it seemed better than the alternatives. I kept picturing you all alone and...it bothered me. I kept wondering if you were all right, if you made it back to your motel room, if you got lost along the way, if you got hauled back in as a crazy person again.”

 

“You brought me here to be sure of my safety,” he summarizes needlessly, sounding touched now rather than suspicious.

 

“Another thing: tomorrow, we're getting you a legitimate identity. You're going to exist here, all right? Driver's license, bank account, credit card, email address, your own phone. I've gotten you entered in as a paid consultant. All we need is paper proof that you're real.”

 

Sipping his tea, he looks up at her, taken aback. “A busy day lies before us. Is that also a reason for bringing me here? To ensure an early start?”

 

Abbie nods, draining her cup as well. “The sooner we get started, the better. I know a few people, it shouldn't be hard if you know where to go. Once we get you a social security number, the rest should be in the bag.”

 

Faking a knowledgeable smile to hide his anxiety and confusion, Crane pulls off his boots and finishes his tea. “Well, then. Good night, Lieutenant Mills.”

 

“Good night, Crane.”

 

As Abbie lies in bed, she feels comforting sense of peace inside her, knowing her friend is safe and near. She imagines his sleeping face...although she prefers him awake. His eyes, his smile, his cool and often humorous observations. They're slowly nestling into her heart.

 

 

 

II. Identity

 

 

Both rise early the next morning. It takes Ichabod a moment to remember where he is. He sits up and pulls open the curtains. Abbie comes in from her bedroom, yawning and stretching. She pauses to take in the sight of her partner, standing silhouetted in the window, half-naked for the whole world to see. Composing herself quickly, she calls out, “Remind me we need to get you some new clothes while we're out.” Without waiting for a response, she heads for the kitchen to make a pot of coffee. While rummaging in the fridge for something to offer her guest for breakfast, she wonders to herself how much time and trouble this is going to involve. She hears Crane in the bathroom, the shower running, and hopes that he doesn't mind her floral-scented shampoo and body wash. She is able to get a few calls in in the meantime to get Operation: Ichabod off the ground. It sounds like the toughest one would be with the DMV. Then with a mental shrug, Abbie figures that a simple government ID would suffice, they're accepted everywhere in place of a driver's license, and she really isn't prepared to teach Crane to drive.

 

He's taking longer in the shower than she would have expected, she always knew men to be faster as a rule. Still, a shower is still fairly novel for him, he must be enjoying it. She makes a few slices of toast for each of them and starts up some fried eggs. Now she hears the blow dryer. Again, it goes on for a lot longer than she thought. Crane has long hair, yes, but it's still shorter than hers. Getting a bit impatient now, she goes to the bathroom door and knocks.

 

“Yes? Hello?” He calls over the noise of the hair dryer.

 

“Are you decent in there?”

 

“Decent?”

 

“Are you covered or not?!”

 

Wrapping a towel around his waist, he calls back, “I believe so.”

 

The door opens and Lieutenant Mills stands before him. Her eyes are automatically drawn to the hair dryer in the man's hand. He's using it to dry his clothes.

 

“Is that what you've been doing since you got here?” Abbie asks, now grateful that he'd found a way to wash his clothes at all.

 

“I've been offered no alternative. I must say, I like your soap much better than the inn's,” he tells her with complete seriousness. He finishes, holding up his “new toy” with an appreciative grin. “Very useful device. Certainly faster than hanging them on the line.”

 

Not sure how to begin to correct him, Abbie shakes her head with a smile and leaves him to get dressed. When he emerges, she steers him to the table for breakfast. He dives in like it is to be his last meal. “Thank you,” he gasps, having cleaned his plate in short order.

 

 _Poor guy must've been starving,_ Abbie thinks as she calmly finishes her own breakfast, wondering exactly when he last ate. She remembers handing him a bag of doughnuts the day before yesterday, which he made similarly short work of, baked good tax outrage notwithstanding. She gives him a cup of coffee as she sips her own, making a mental note to buy him lunch today, too.

 

“First off, I made a few calls while you were using my bathroom as your own personal laundromat. We need to get you a birth certificate and a social security card for starters, that'll be the real trick. I'll see what I can do there. It might not _entirely_ legal, but there aren't exactly standard procedures for someone coming in from another time needing valid ID.”

 

“So I'd imagine,” Crane replies coolly. He stares down into his cup with a thoughtful expression. “Katrina likes you. Bit jealous, I think, but glad I'm not alone. I still couldn't touch her, though,” he sighs sadly.

 

“You must miss her a lot,” Abbie observes, not sure what to think of what he just told her.

 

“As much as you miss your sheriff, I'd imagine. You loved him.”

 

Abbie nods, trying not to let it bother her. “He's the closest thing to a dad that I ever had.” It's easy to forget while they're neck deep in trouble together, that her partner is mourning, too.

 

After they finish up, they go down to her car and head into town. “I know a few tricks to getting a birth certificate, there could be a dozen valid reasons why you don't have one. We just have to be careful or you'll look like an illegal immigrant.”

 

“Illegal immigrant?”

 

Abbie takes her eyes off the road for a second and glances at her companion. “It's hard to explain. We just want to make sure you don't raise any red flags.”

 

“I already told your intimate at the station I was a history teacher at Oxford.”

 

Her face draws into a scowl, “Well, that complicates things a bit. So...we have to get you a green card. So you can live and work here.” She gives him another look. “You know, we should get that pushed through at the station. If you're working for us, they should be able to help with arrangements. We just need to get you to exist on paper. They can deal with your citizenship.”

 

“Miss Abbie, I fought and died for this country. What further proof of my loyalty would anyone need?” Crane sounds indignantly irritated by these complications.

 

“If we had proof of military service, that would actually go a long way to securing you citizenship. Too bad that was 200 years ago.”

 

“Indeed.”

 

A thought occurs to Lieutenant Mills, making her brighten up. “I know a few people at the Bureau in Washington. They might help us cut through the red tape.”

 

“Then it seems our problems are in good hands,” Crane cheerily points out. “The police will grant me permission to work in this country, your colleagues can forge me an ID number, and once I start getting paid for my work, and let's hope that's soon, I can...” he trails off as they drive past a bank. “The bank! It's the same branch!” He points at the large building, his face gleaming with recognition.

 

Looking from the building to the man next to her, Abbie sees a loophole. “You have an account in that bank?”

 

“Of course! Why didn't I think of it before!”

 

“It hasn't changed hands in 200 years,” she murmurs, “All of your information should still be on file. Old, yes, but you exist in there!”

 

They pull into the parking lot and enter the building. Crane goes up to the nearest available teller. “Hello, I've come to review my account information.” He then gives his name and account number.

 

The woman looks at him dubiously. “Ichabod Crane?” She chuckles, “Your parents must be interesting people.”

 

Not the least bit thrown off by her remark, Crane answers, “They were, yes. They're both long dead, though, so can we hurry this along?”

 

The teller looks up his account on the computer. When they'd upgraded to digital format instead of paper files, even the oldest accounts were added into the database. The manager thought it would add a nice historical touch, to “keep the past alive”. It's the bank manager's sense of whimsy, then, that oils the gate that Crane desperately needs opened.

 

“Ah, here it is. Are you here for a deposit, withdrawal, or inquiry?”

 

“Would you be so kind as to get me a paper copy of that my information, it would be most helpful. Also, if I could inquire my balance?”

 

“Sure thing, hun.”

 

“I do hope it's all still there. Last I checked I had nearly $40.”

 

The teller pulls up Crane's information and raises her eyebrows. “You'd better balance your checkbook more often, Mr. Crane. You have over $5000 in here.” She hands him the printed out account information.

 

Fighting to remain calm, that any sign of bafflement would indeed raise “red flags” as Lieutenant Mills had put it, he accepts the printout. “In that case, may I make a withdrawal? I've been advised to purchase some new attire. What would you expect to be a sufficient amount for such a venture?”

 

“Well, that depends, probably a hundred or so.”

 

Crane nods, “If you would be so kind.”

 

Ultimately successful, Ichabod descended the steps and hops into Abbie's waiting car. “Wonderful luck, Lieutenant Mills! I exist on paper, look. Proof. Will that be good enough for positive identification?” He hands her the paper and claps his hands in triumph.

 

“It'll help. We'll have to change the years on this, it'll be easy to make the sevens look like nines if we smudge them a bit. Apart from that, good job. We're one step closer. I think we can let it ride for now. At least that takes care of some of the running around we had to do.” With a light toss of her head, Abbie lets out a long breath of relief. This has been bothering her since she took this man under her wing. They make a quick stop at the station to fax the sheet in to the right people, calling to explain their unique request. A few phone calls to Lt. Mills' capitol contacts yield positive results.

 

“There, now don't ever make me do this again! The hard copy will be in the mail in two days.”

 

“You're the best,” Abbie tells her friend. The fax machine whirs, and a temporary government ID prints out. She hangs up, beaming at her luck. She'd sent him a picture from her phone, and it was a good one. She folds it up and sticks it in her partner's pocket. “There you go. You exist on paper. How about this: you were born here, went off to Oxford for school, liked it so much that you stayed, took up teaching history yourself, then came back here because we needed your expertise.”

 

Crane digests this, nodding vaguely, “And am I to understand that this is the simplified version?”

 

“Yes, because it doesn't involve dual citizenship.”

 

“And anyone curious enough to check the story's veracity will discover there is no such department that I claimed to be part of.”

 

“Or is it just so small that it doesn't bear mentioning?” Abbie suggests with a grin. They return to the car and are on their way again. It's shaping up to be a productive day.

 

“I think this calls for a celebration,” Crane announces smoothly, withdrawing an envelope of cash from his inside pocket. “My treat.” He riffles the bills delightedly, feeling quite wealthy. He has to remind himself that a sackful of baked goods costs over $4 in this day and age, so while it's still a goodly sum, it's hardly enough to cause a stir. “I'll at least be able to afford some new clothes. It's rather morbid to be walking the streets in my funeral attire every day. It's become increasingly obvious that a lot has changed in terms of what's considered fashionable. I do tend to stand out.”

 

Abbie grins, drumming the steering wheel idly. “I get the feeling that you would stand out no matter what you had on. Still, you need some new outfits, probably a bunch of other stuff, too. Once you start getting a steady paycheck, you can find your own apartment.” She makes a turn and hits her exit, driving out onto the highway out of town, heading for the nearest shopping center.

 

“Should I look for one near your own? In case you grow concerned for my well being?” He sounds equally genuine and potentially sarcastic. Abbie wonders if secretly _he_ wishes to stay close by, since she's at least familiar to him. She doesn't answer, simply shrugs with a noncommittal jerk of her head, letting him take it as he wishes.

 

 

 

III. Clothes Make the Man

 

 

When they finally reach the mall, Ichabod is amazed by the number of cars in the parking lot, and cannot fathom why his friend would behold the same sight and mutter, “Not many people today, it's always nice to shop when business is slow. We'll get in and out quickly.” They park and walk up to the front doors. Abbie takes his hand and holds it tightly. “Now stay close, and don't get lost. If we get separated, we'll meet right here at the main entrance, all right?”

 

“Agreed,” he replies, gripping back hard in anticipation. “I don't think I'm going to like this.”

 

“It'll be fun. It's like...market day.”

 

They pass another set of glass doors and they're inside. A large bookstore is on their right, the food court spreads off from their left. He turns to his friend and is surprised to see her looking a little sad. “Miss Abbie?”

 

They stroll along the path together, and she gives a short sigh, shaking herself abruptly. “It's nothing, It's just sad to see it so...dead. The mall is dying, people don't go out and shop anymore. When I was a kid, it was like a culture, it was a place to go, to work, to shop, to hang out. Now...” her gaze is drawn to three empty lots in a row.

 

Awkwardly unable to fathom Abbie's distress, Crane tries to look understanding. “My sympathies.”

 

“I don't expect you to get it. It's silly to get attached to a place like this. It was home, though.”

 

“One does get attached to the familiar. Change is always...jarring, isn't it?” He looks into the shops, wondering how this shopping trip is going to proceed. They pass a hair salon and he notices Abbie gazing at a poster of a close-cropped young man, then back at him. He brings a hand protectively to his head. “Put that idea out of your mind immediately. I have no intention of being shorn like a sheep.”

 

Abbie laughs shortly, “Just a thought, but you're right. It would look weird. This should be relatively painless. Men are so much easier to shop for. You'll just need a few nice pairs of dress slacks for work, some button-down shirts and ties, maybe a jacket or two...then just jeans and t-shirts for casual days.”

 

“Jeans?”

 

“You know, blue jeans, denim pants?” She gestures to her own.

 

Crane scoffs, annoyed now. “If you wish me to go about dressed as a farm laborer...”

 

“Everyone wears them now, not just farmers. Besides, they're comfortable.”

 

He sees the sense in their mission, although part of him feels notes of regret. He hugs his coat around himself, running his fingers down places where Katrina had mended and darned it in the past. _In the past, what a fitting choice of words._ He sits down abruptly on a nearby bench, hunkering down as though he's having a dizzy spell. “Miss Abbie, please...”

 

She turns around and sits down next to him, wondering what's wrong. “Hey, you all right?”

 

“I don't want to do this. It's all I have left of her. Don't take her from me.” Crane's normally smooth voice breaks, sounding close to panic, close to tears as he's asked to shed his last reminder of his home and life.

 

Abbie stares, bewildered...then pity takes over. Clothes make the man, as the saying goes, and she's callously asking him to throw away his only connection to the life he knew. He knows it must be done for the sake of fitting in in this new world, but can't bear the thought of it.

 

“Hey, Crane...you can keep them if you want. This will just be for work, okay? I'm sure a reenactment society can find you some more clothes like yours.” She smiles hopefully, wishing she could talk him down from this.

 

He clasps her hand gratefully, anxious sweat standing out on his brow. “Yes, yes, thank you.”

 

“Come on, cheer up. I thought you wanted to celebrate, remember?”

 

All desire or inclination to celebrating is far from his mind now. He draws a breath and brings his hands up to cup his face. “I don't want to be here. I just wish I could go home. Home, Miss Abbie, do you understand?” Ichabod looks over at his friend, his only friend in the world, and sees that he's scaring her. “It will pass, Lieutenant. I'll be fine. Just need to breathe.”

 

She pats his shoulder. “Stay put, I'll be right back. Okay?” He nods and she gets up and leaves. Trying to pull himself together for the sake of not appearing like a madman in front of passersby, Crane sits up straighter and breathes deeply. Moments later, Abbie reappears over his shoulder and hands him an ice cream cone. She licks hers, waiting for his reaction. “Did you have ice cream where you're from?”

 

Ichabod slurps his eagerly, leaving a pink dribble down his beard. “Once. It was a very special occasion. This is...smoother, sweeter.” He devours the melting treat in his hand, making his partner force back laughter at his expense. He reminds her of a little kid sometimes. She hands him some napkins and nibbles her cone. Correctly reading the look on her friend's face, she assures him, “You eat that part, too. It's like a cookie. Sorry,” she murmurs before putting on a fake British accent, “I mean a biscuit, of course.”

 

Abbie Mills is unlike any woman that Ichabod has ever met. In his own time, such mocking would have offended him. Now, however, he knows she means no ill by it, and that it's that familiarity that's at the root of their friendship. The rest of his ice cream cone rapidly vanishes and he stands, once more revived and set on their course.

 

Abbie points him into the nearby men's room, “Better clean yourself up first. Unless you were saving that for later,” she teases, pointing at his face. “Just go in. It's a big bathroom for lots of guys to use at once.”

 

“Sounds unsanitary,” Crane remarks, wrinkling his nose at the thought. Still, he obeys. Moments later, he returns, clean and presentable once more.

 

They fall in step beside one another and Ichabod does his best to stay close. She steers him into a department store. Crane springs back skittishly as a greeter offers a cologne sample, and another pounces on him with a store credit card application. Luckily, they are able to escape and get directed to the menswear.

 

“Does a tailor or seamstress work here?” he asks, looking all around at the rows of identical shirts and pants. How do they manage to clothe so many people?”

 

“A lot is done by machine now,” Abbie answers, smirking at the thought of a tailor lurking somewhere in the store to make necessary adjustments. “Quality probably probably went downhill, but that's the price we pay I guess. You can still find tailors out there, but they're expensive.”

 

Soon they're approached by a floor associate, who looks Crane up and down with raised eyebrows. “Finding everything all right?”

 

“My friend here just needs to update his wardrobe,” Abbie answers, knowing this is the understatement of the century.

 

“Yeah, I can see that.”

 

Crane now addresses the man, feeling the need to speak for himself. “I would greatly benefit from having measurements taken, if you would be so kind.”

 

The worker still looks at him like he's going to turn out to be a nut, but complies. “Yeah, sure.”

 

“Here, I'll take your coat,” Abbie offers, holding out her hand. Crane nods and gives it to her. As the man takes his measurements, they attempt small talk.

 

“So, are you looking for something special or just ready to join the 21st century?”

 

“An equal measure of each, I would say. I've been told I must find appropriate work attire as well as casual wear. I expect both sets to be well-made and able to take a beating, if you understand me.”

 

“We'll see what we can do for you. What sort of work are you in?”

 

“I've recently been appointed to be a police consultant. I anticipate plenty of field work.”

 

The floor associate helps him find a vacant fitting room while he and Abbie look through the department for possibilities. After some prodding, Crane agrees to come out and model the clothes to get his partner's opinion.

 

While he's changing into the first outfit, Abbie goes to the adjacent areas to find belts, shoes, socks, and underwear. Something tells her that Crane's old knee boots won't work with the new slacks he's trying on.

 

 _Boxers or briefs_...she ponders, holding packs of both for inspection. Figuring she can let him decide that, she returns in time for him to show her the first round. brown slacks, light blue shirt, and a green corduroy fall jacket. She nods her enthusiastic approval, obviously pleasing her friend. Soon, they have a sizable collection gathered up, as well as necessary accessories. Keeping him partially in his own century as well, Abbie shows him a pocket watch from the jewelry counter. The cover design is a forest scene, reminding Ichabod of the netherworld where Katrina comes to him in his dreams. He adds it to the basket. He now has a week's worth of work and play clothes, shoes, underthings, two belts: black and brown, a wallet, and the watch. They plan to visit a drug store for grooming supplies and similar articles. Next up, is getting him a phone.

 

 

The salesman hands Crane a demonstration model of a smartphone. “This one is a pretty user-friendly model. If you're not the type to break it open and fiddle around with things, this would be the way to go. It has your address book right there to enter in your contacts, you can download music to it, it has plenty of space to play around with it. What do you think?”

 

Crane looks to his friend, wanting her opinion, having nothing to base one on himself.

 

“That's a good one for a beginner. You don't need anything too...complicated,” she answers his unasked question. “We'll take it.”

 

They get it set up for him, Abbie enters her number in his “favorites” list, and walks him through calling her. Then, the fun begins!

 

“It's hooked up to my account, you can just pay me back until we get everything sorted.”

 

“Thank you,” he tells her, staring at the new toy in his hand. He pokes at the screen, curiously navigating the features. There are several preset choices he can have for his wallpaper, he toys around with it to see what happens. He does this all the way back from the mall, playing with the sounds and color patterns, not even getting into the real nuts and bolts of it. They pull up to her apartment and bring their purchases inside. Abbie then snatches the phone from his hand and starts poking at it herself.

 

Abbie hunts and pecks decidedly at the screen, lighting up with pleasure at the surprise she has in store for Crane. “I think...you'll...like this,” she announces. “Look!” She holds it up for him to see.

 

At first, it's almost too small to see. He brings the device closer and draws a finger down it. A digital manifestation of a seemingly endless bookcase zooms beneath his finger. He draws an awestruck gasp, recognizing the titles. Books by and about the Founding Fathers, some old demonology books as well as myths and legends...despite being after his time, she'd downloaded the complete Adventures of Sherlock Holmes, perhaps to help along his burgeoning detective career. Crane hesitantly taps the image of Thomas Paine's “Common Sense”, and laughs out loud when the screen fills with text from the book!

 

“I am deeply in your debt, Lieutenant,” he breathes, fixing her with look of sheer gratitude. What would he have done without her?

 

Abbie scoffs, brushing it aside, “No, you're not. Those books are all old enough to be free.” Still, she looks very happy that he likes his new portable library.

 

“Not just for the books, then. For everything. For all you've done to help me. You've been wonderful.”

 

Crane pulls his friend into a hug, all seems well...then, he hears it. A soft, lovesick sigh escapes her. She clings harder, longer than he'd anticipated.

 

“You've...grown fond of me,” Ichabod observes softly as he takes a step back. His voice is quietly surprised. He takes in the sight of his friend, his reluctant fellow witness.

 

Abbie doesn't bother trying to deny it. She nods, answering, “Yeah.” She gives him a hopeful smile, a loving look in her eyes as she stares up at him, but already knowing from his expression that it's not to be.

 

Crane closes his eyes, patting her shoulder. “I'm sorry.” She simply puts a hand over his and brings it up to her cheek. He allows her to indulge herself in that pleasure for a moment before pulling away. “I am sorry, Miss Abbie. You've been my friend, and I need one. Anything more, though...I cannot. We may still be able to save Katrina, and I must. You know that. I cannot offer you false hope. It would be doing you a disservice.”

 

“Look, I don't know if you realize this, but I'm really bad at handling emotions, all right?”

 

“I gathered, Miss Abbie, and I appreciate you coping with this one so...directly. However, I cannot return such feelings in equal measure. I'm sorry. Truly. I do not wish to lose you as a friend because of this. I need you with me. Not only for work, or the prophesy, but to keep me rooted and to keep me sane in this world, to help me simply exist here. I never intended to hurt you. I would still be your friend if that's enough.”

 

“I know.” There's a hardness to her voice when she answers, bitterness. “You know how hard it is for me to trust people. I trust you. For all the craziness that's been going on since I met you...I trust you.”

 

“I appreciate that more than you'll ever know. Just because I don't share your feelings, it doesn't mean that I discount them. I wish only to keep you. By my side, my friend. Please.”

 

Abbie glares up at him now, feeling embarrassed and sorely disappointed. Still, she doesn't want to lose him completely, either. Her love for him drives her to his side, to protect and aid, as does his loyalty to her. They're not so different. Her anger cools now, and she nods with downcast eyes. “I can do that.”

 

Ichabod smiles kindly and brings her fingers to his lips for a soft kiss. His old-fashioned gesture brings a look of comfortable pleasure to Abbie's face. As much as she may wish him to love her, she can at least be grateful for his friendship, his steadfast loyalty to brave dangers alongside her, his trust. She brushes her hand against his cheek affectionately, running her fingers through his hair as she gazes regretfully at him.

 

“I'll be all right.”

 

“I know you will. I wish I hadn't caused you pain, however unintentional. If there's anything I can do, you only need name it.” She nods, forcing a smile at this. “Thank you for a wonderful day.”

 

Abbie takes a deep breath, looking like she's trying to act normal. She certainly doesn't want to lose him as a friend, either. “Any time. Just wait until my next day off.”

 

Crane cocks a curious eyebrow. “Why? What awaits us on that day?”

 

“I take you apartment shopping.”

 

 

End...?

 


End file.
